


What We Have Sown

by somebodys_dog



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-30
Updated: 2012-08-30
Packaged: 2017-11-13 05:01:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somebodys_dog/pseuds/somebodys_dog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It is time," the Patrician states simply, sitting up behind his desk. "Time for us to step out of the way of greater men."</p>
            </blockquote>





	What We Have Sown

Vetinari has the decency to tell him a week ahead of time. It's the best he can do, he says. And for a few minutes Sam rages about that, because raging about anything else would be impossible; he'd lose himself there, and that wasn't a road he wanted to go down. Not with his son. Not when he should be proud.  
  
Is proud, he corrects himself. _Is_ proud. And it isn't as if none of them expected this. And yet...the first feeling he can't shake off, the first twinge that hits him like a crossbow bolt to the chest, that bitter bile rising behind his teeth, is betrayal. His own son. His _own_  son. This is chased shortly, of course, by guilt, and then Sam crumbles under the weight of it.  
  
Havelock watches the commander hang his head in silence, and briefly his lips twitch into an earnest frown. It is...a complicated situation, he can admit. There are many things at play here. But then, with such high profiles as theirs, there always are. So he waits, quietly, fingers laced on the edge of his desk, eyes securely on Vimes. It is not his turn to speak any longer, at least not yet, and he has no trouble coming to terms with this. Sam was always the one who had the hardest time with silences. Silences could mean anything, and words were tricky enough, but Sir Samuel Vimes always shot straight, always said what he meant, especially if he was angry.  
  
At last, when speech returns to him, Vimes straightens up only enough to look at his knees. He still can't look the Patrician in the eye. Vetinari finds himself surprised at how much this stings. What a thing to be _blamed_ for.  
  
"Why?"  
  
Of all the things to say, all the questions to ask, this is perhaps the only one that could take Havelock momentarily off-guard. For a moment, he looks pained, but a strangely paternal smile creeps across his lips, albeit briefly. "Really, Vimes." He has the decency, at least this once, to stave the honorific. "Think of who raised the boy."  
  
Sam sits back, brows knit, as though he actually has to do intricate mental calculations to come to the correct answer. There's the entirety of the Watch, most of the palace staff, that week with those biddies in Lancre was probably worth a lifetime of raising, and then, of course...  
  
"You, me, and Sybil." He sighs. Of course. Of course it would come to this. How could there possibly be any other outcome?  
  
"He is...the best man for the job." There's no pride lost in this, no sacrifice. For once in his damnable life Vetinari is being sincere. This of all moments. _Damn him._  
  
"Better than you?"  
  
"Most definitely."  
  
The commander sags again. Cups his head in his hands. Thinks of his wife, his son - his good, strong son, and the men whose image he reflects. His good, strong, smart, cunning, kind son. Silence passes between the two of them, and it is all filled with young Sam, his big smile, his tiny hands all grown and calloused and so good with a sword, the way he still laughs -- a grown man, a good man -- when someone tells a poo joke. The way Angua can make him snicker and Carrot blush with a single look. The way he knows what holds the city up, and what could break it down. The way he learned so quickly how to maneuver around the Event that is Nobby Nobbs. The way he consoled Carrot, with complete lack of irony, when the captain cried after swearing him in as an honorary watchman. The way he loved like his mother, whole and true and without reservation. The way he came back from Lancre almost engaged. The way he was growing up so, so fast.  
  
Slowly, the same conclusion sinks down upon them both. Vetinari grimaces when he sees it dawn upon Vimes.  
  
"I can't do it now. It's too close. It'll still look like...like I'm doing it because..."  
  
"We could arrange for a grievous injury to befall you."  
  
For a moment, Vimes looks as though he seriously considers this. The Patrician taps his desk somewhat sharply with a fingertip, calling his commander back into reality. "No," he declares simply, "for a first, Sybil would never forgive me for it."  
  
"For a second?" Sam shoots back with a snarl. He wants to fight. He's ready to fight. He's not ready to give up on the only thing he knows, that's for certain. He's not ready to admit that their time has passed. He'll fight tooth and nail, he'll fight this to the end, and it will be painful to watch all the way down.  
  
But Havelock remains placid, though he pushes himself to his feet with the aid of his cane. "Your son." Ever cool, ever calm. Vimes hates him more than ever, burning white hot and vengeful, a sleek but tired blade seeking blame to plant itself within. But then Vetinari is crouching beside him, _daring_ to show that vulnerability, having the gall to pull it out here, in this very office, when Vimes needs it the most. The bastard. "And you."  
  
There's a thin, bony hand on his arm now, and without warning or invitation, Vimes deflates, all the fight gone out of him. This, Havelock knows, is the most painful part. And they both most soldier through it.  
  
"He has learned from the very best," Vetinari says, and Sam only half-listens. "And he'll unite Lancre and Ankh-Morpork within weeks."  
  
"Get married, you mean," the copper retorts bitterly. He can't imagine his son reducing his marriage to such cold, political terms, and he doesn't want to start imagining it now.  
  
The smile on Havelock's face is both comforting and aggravating. Some things never change.  
  
"You may never be willing to admit that such can be one in the same, but your son knows. His bride-to-be knows -- my sources tell me she's a clever girl. Daughter of a witch."  
  
"Sources?" Sam pulls back slightly, glaring confusion right through the Patrician. "You've _met_ her. We've had her over for dinner. You talked to her for hours!"  
  
"I have excellent sources." By now, Vetinari is grinning, and Vimes can't help but smirk despite himself. But this moment passes quickly, and Havelock stands again, supporting himself on his cane for a moment. This is the Oblong Office. This is where business lies. He can only afford to comfort Sam for so long before he has to rip the bandaid off. There are matters to be arranged.  
  
And Vimes sighs. "Who will be--"  
  
"There will not be a commander to succeed you."  
  
"What?"  
  
Vetinari is calmly organizing some paperwork on his desk again, all stone, all clean procedures. "I spoke with Captain Irondfounderson as well as Captain Angua. Neither of them will hear of a promotion, and miraculously cannot seem to provide me with any other suitable candidates. Never the less," he looks pointedly over his papers at Sam, who is still stuck in a quiet state of bewilderment; he had been sure of Carrot for that one, "the Watch was led by a captain before, if I am not mistaken, and well. And now it will have two." He manages the swiftestsmirk. If Vimes had not known him for so long, he might have missed it. Now he never does. "All the better. Lord Vimes will take kindly to such a display of--"  
  
"Oh, don't." Sam has his head in his hands again, groaning into his knees. "Don't do that. Not yet. It hasn't even happened yet. He doesn't even know."  
  
At this, the Patrician manages to look more amused than exasperated. "Don't be obtuse, Your Grace. He is my successor. Of course he knows."  
  
A heavy sigh hits palms. Of course. Of course he does. Educated by Vetinari, trained by Vimes, tempered by Sybil -- of course he knows. He is, after all, the best man for the job.  
  
"But what if -- how -- he'll think it's because of him. He'll think I'm doing it because of him."  
  
For the second time, Vetinari allows a little more kindness to slip into his expression. He puts his papers down to look squarely at Vimes, a sad, knowing smile on his face. "He is your son. He will also know why." At this, the commander can only swallow, and again find unnatural interest in his own knees.  
  
"The funny thing about the relationship between the leader of the Watch and the Patrician," Vetinari begins after a moment or two of silence, "is that to ensure the best outcome, their relationship must be one of at least mild contention. For a healthy Ankh-Morpork, two leaders must care, for their own reasons. Always for their own reasons. And they must disagree. They must not be afraid to upset one another. A little relish in that, in fact, might indeed do the city a service. Each must temper the other. I feel this made of us a rather perfect example."  
  
Both of their smiles are slightly bitter, now. But slightly fond, too.  
  
"But you are a family man now, Sir Samuel. And, in a way, so am I. And this requires sacrifice. So too do our positions. To lead is to sacrifice. To lead successfully is to sacrifice much. As men, we must choose where our greatest allegiances lie when one sacrifice threatens the other." He gives Sam a long, hard look. This time, Sam returns it, unafraid. He knows what kind of man he is, down to his core. And so does Vetinari. And that, he supposes, is why they are both here, deadlocked and unready, and yet fully aware of what sacrifice needs to be made for the good -- the greater good. The whole good. Their own good.  
  
"We are old, Sam." The use of his name jars him enough that he cannot object. Vimes would never get old. He flat-out refused. But maybe Sam would have to. "We are men of another time. And fo you know, the funniest thing of all?" He leans back then, glancing with a reminiscent air toward the ceiling. "I think I can say with definite certainty I would not have thought so just a few years ago. But then, for the first time, I held a child's hand to cross the street. And I did not hold it for appearances. I did not hold it because he asked me to. I held it because he was so small, and that street was so big, and at that moment I knew the man I was would cease to be if I did not do everything in my power to make sure that very small made it across that single street in one piece."  
  
He sighs, and Vimes shifts uncomfortably. Vetinari is so rarely sentimental, so rarely open. Never raw. This isn't right. This is some sort of passage, and he still isn't ready for it.  
  
"It is time," the Patrician states simply, sitting up behind his desk. "Time for us to step out of the way of greater men. Time for us to, as our dear Sybil might say, reap what we have sown."  
  
"And what is that?" He doesn't even have the energy to be bitter about it anymore. Truth is weighing on him like the world on his shoulders. Time is catching up, all at once.  
  
"An impeccable Watch, and a rather remarkable young man."  
  
They sit in silence for a while longer. Some clock strikes some time. Both men lost in the sum of their parts, and the whole of each other, and the promise of one once-so-terribly-small young boy.  
  
At last, Vetinari stands, and offers his free hand out to the only-just Commander. "We've arranged your retirement ceremony for the morning. Sybil did make me promise to get you home at a decent hour."  
  
Vimes isn't even surprised they've planned it out already. He shrugs off the hand with standard contempt, but supports an elbow thereafter as the two make their way out of the office. "You two aren't going to make me wear the stupid tights, are you?"  
  
"My dear Sir Samuel," Vetinari answers in the voice of a lark, "would I be the man you know if I did not?"  
  
  
  
  
So Vimes stands in his stupid tights for the ceremony. He watches the watchmen drink and cry and slap him round the shoulders afterward. And in a week's time, he stands between one great man and one great woman, and watches his son start changing the world with a quiet smile on his face. Both Havelock and Sybil have the decency not to look at him when those tears finally escape, but the steady pressure on either of his hands is never released.  
  
"I would like to thank my predecessor," Sam Vimes Jr. announces to the endless crowd, "from whom I've learned much. My mother, without whom the world would be a much sorer place. The good watchmen, who have taught me of real justice and real dedication." Sybil is sobbing. Vetinari has to look away. Carrot is standing so ramrod-straight in his permanent salute he might break in half, Angua sharing in his silent tears. All the watchmen's eyes are glassy. Nobby cries openly on Colon, crying "my boy! My little boy! Little squirt!" Colon does his best to shush him kindly, his own face blotched and red.  
  
Vimes keeps his eyes on his son. He will not look away in this moment. He will not hide while Ahnk-Morpork steps into the future every man and woman here has fought for.  
  
"And my father, whom I can only ever strive to make proud."


End file.
